The Shield: Corner of My Mind
by LennonsStarr
Summary: A young woman living near The Barn becomes aquainted with Dutch after her brother is arrested for aggrivated murder. Dutch begins to further develop psychotic tendencies as his intimacy with this girl grows deeper. FINISHED
1. Crystal Martinez

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am having some technical errors with my computer and things such as that, I'm sure you know how it is. So please, I beg of you, be patient with me. I'll get it figured out (hopefully).**

The Shield: The Corner of My Mind

Chapter 1

The girl's open palms beat against the glass of the door. She was in tears, her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks were red.

"You did this!" She screamed as Dutch walked over to the door. "You did this! It's you're fault! You killed my baby brother!"

Dutch pulled open the door, and the girl practically fell in. After she caught her balance she lifted her fists and threw them fiercely at Dutch's chest, beating him pathetically.

"You bastard!" She cried as he moved to gently grip her wrists and try to restrain her. "You cock sucking bastard!" She pulled back from his grasp and fiercely swung her open palm. It slapped harshly against his face, the smack of the contact cracking through the room.

By now, all eyes were on Dutch and the girl. Everybody knew who she was, and everybody knew why she was here.

Her name was Crystal Martinez. Everybody called her Chris. Dutch had put her little brother in prison for the aggravated murder of a black man, and he had killed himself in his cell after being raped only four hours before.

Vic had seen her when she came in. She had been sitting in the waiting room, waiting for Dutch to come in. She didn't know he always used the back door, or else she would have waited out there. Vic Mackey knew when a girl was royally pissed off, and this one had vaulted beyond that point about three and a half hours ago. If she wasn't so hysterical, she might have concentrated enough on Dutch to draw blood, but it was obvious she wasn't thinking clearly.

Pulling his head back from the sting of the slap, Dutch winced, but recovered quickly. He reached forward and took hold of Chris's wrists, this time more firmly.

"Let me go!" She screamed at him, throwing herself backwards, trying to wrench out of his grip.

But his fingers tightened around her thin, fragile wrists, and he pulled her back towards him. He felt her pulse under his fingers, and heard her shouts, and for a moment was reminded of the tabby hissing and clawing at his chest as his hands tightened around its neck-

Suddenly she gave way, seemingly exhausted, and collapsed against him. His hands slipped from her wrists, and her arms fell limply to her side. He put his arms around her shoulders and gave her a gentle, reassuring hug.

"Why did you do this?" She hissed as she pulled away again, wiping her eyes.

"If I had known that this was going to happen, I would have kept him in The Cage." He motioned over his shoulder to the place they stowed criminals before processing them and sending them off to prison or releasing them.

For a moment Chris's crystal blue eyes focused on The Cage, two "cells" that looked more like dog pens than a containment center for criminals. There were a few people in there now, milling around, mostly ignoring the commotion.

"He didn't even do it," she growled.

"Now only was his blood at the crime scene," Dutch protested, "but also his hair and his semen. He has been lying to you for the past year. He never worked at the clinic. He was panhandling and selling drugs."

She knew it was true, but she didn't want to admit it to this dick detective. So instead, she rolled her eyes, wiping more tears from her cheeks, and turned to lean against the wall.

Taking a step forward, Dutch gently placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing softly. He could feel the thin bones under his fingers, and couldn't help but think of the history of the family. A poor mother, with many children to feed, whose father was a Mexican and whose mother was a white runaway. This girl's father was white, and the Mexican in her showed through only a little, in her accent and cheekbones. The family had lived in a tiny house outside of L.A. before moving into the vicinity, hoping to find themselves better off here. Unfortunately, they only found themselves poorer. The youngest daughter had starved to death last year.

"I'm sorry about what happened to your brother," Dutch said, his voice quiet and compassionate. "But there's nothing I can do about it now." He paused, feeling her shoulders begin to quiver as sobs overtook her again. "There is a psychiatrist most of the station goes to when they need to talk to someone. His name Dr. Phill-"

"I don't need a fucking psychiatrist!" She spun fast, whipping his hand from her shoulder. "I need a friend. A family member, a spouse. Someone who knows me. But I don't have that anymore, do I shit head?" She took a threatening step forward, but Dutch held his ground.

"You can talk to me." He pulled a business card from his pocket, and pressed it into her hand. "Maybe I can help you. Maybe I can make up for I took from you."

She glanced down at the card, seemed to scan it for a moment, crumpled it, and bounced it off his forehead. "I don't need you." She muttered something in Spanish that he couldn't quite here as she stalked out the door, picking up her purse and digging through it.

Sighing, Dutch just stood there for a moment, watching the door swing closed behind her.

"Why did you do that, man?" Vic asked as he approached. "You got the hots for her or something? You've never offered to help anyone like that."

"It's none of your fucking business," Dutch remarked coolly as he turned towards his desk.

"If it were me, I wouldn't be handing my business card to a girl who seems prone to violence."

Dutch turned to reply, but Vic had vanished down another hall into the Strike Team's room.

"You OK?" Claudette asked as he came into the main room of the station house. "That was quite a ruckus."

"Yeah," Dutch muttered as he sat heavily in his chair. "It was."

"You got too connected to the case," Claudette said. "What happened?"  
"I felt bad for her," Dutch admitted. "Her brother had been lying to her, her youngest sister starved to death; her mother was hardly home, her father skipped out on them. The family crumbled and she has nothing left but that boy. Now she doesn't even have that." He hunched over his desk, looking for some paperwork to do.

"Did you like her?" Claudette pressed, sitting down at her desk.

Lifting his eyes, Dutch eyed for a moment, then returned to his task of finding some form to fill out. There was always a form to fill out or something to sign. Where the Hell was all his paper work?

It was his neglect to answer the question that answered it for Claudette. Dutch had liked this girl. He'd felt for her. And he'd caused her pain.

**

* * *

**Chris stalked away, running her finger along the sides of buildings. 

Her tears had dried, the blood that had rushed to her cheeks had returned to her heart. She walked down the street, strangely sobered, her mind blank.

"Hey baby!"

Her head swung around, her eyes catching the man who wolf-whistled at her.

"Come on in my car; see if you can handle a real man!"

Without replying, she turned her back on the car and the man hanging out the back window and making vulgar motions to his crotch.

She knew she wasn't necessarily pretty. Or hot - or really attractive at all. She had light brown hair, blue eyes, she was extremely pale. As far as she was concerned the only heritage that showed through in her was the European. She was little more than a skinny white girl...who had just gone ballistic on a detective that could have stepped on her like a bug.

Whatever...her looks weren't the reason men shouted at her when she walked through this particular portion of town. It was because here hookers ran rampant, and they often mistook her for one. If you were a female on this street at night, no matter how heavily clothed, you were fair game.

She arrived home to find an eviction notice on her front door. She tore it down and crumbled it, tossing it over her shoulder before letting herself into the crappy little one-room apartment she and her brother had once lived in.

Before he died, she thought, bitterly blaming that damned detective for the suicide.

But he was just doing his job, she thought, thinking back on the previous night. The previous night, when she had been treated to an elegant dinner that would have taken up two of her lousy paychecks.

Dutch, she thought as she wrote down a phone number on a napkin. She had a photographic memory. All she had to do was glance at the card and it was in her mind. She knew this, and that was why she had looked at the card.

At this point in her life she was weak and vulnerable. She knew she needed someone, and she knew that if that someone was going to be anyone, it might as well be him.

She really didn't hate him. She was just mad, upset, and she needed someone to blame. Right? Human nature, of course. But she was regretting the way she had treated him. He had been so kind to her from the moment they had met.

Lying down on the bed that folded out of her old, rat-eaten couch, Chris stared at the ceiling and sighed, thinking about last night.

She and Dutch had gone out on a "date." She had realized what her brother had done, and she knew it wasn't Dutch's fault. It was her brother's fault, no one else's. He liked her, she thought he was cute, and kind. He had bought her dinner, they had talked. He was recently divorced; she was younger and bitter. He was a detective who was commonly disliked among several cops at the station; she worked at a Dairy Mart in the slums.

They had gotten along so well. She had even developed a full-blown crush on him.

Then she heard what had happened, and all her anger, all her hatred focused on him. He had put her baby brother away; he had been responsible for his rape and suicide.

But he had only been doing his job.

Forcing every muscle in her body to relax, Chris ran her fingers over her eyes, trying to will herself to sleep. It had been a long year, and it seemed it was only going to get longer.


	2. Same you, Same him

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: For those of you getting pissed off about errors in chapter 1 involving punctuation and indentation, I am sorry! For some reason I am having problems getting these to upload correctly, and I am working on it. Chapter 3 should be better, and when I have it figured out what I'm doing wrong, I'll reload the whole story for you. Thank you for being patient.**

Chapter 2

Dutch had finally managed to locate that paper work he'd been searching for. He stayed all night filling it out.

As she left, Claudette asked him how long he would be staying.

"Until this is done," he muttered, continuing to fill out a report on the Martinez kid.

"Not wanting to go home?"

"Not feeling like sleep," Dutch replied, slightly irritated. He liked Claudette, but he wanted her to keep out of his space and stop asking him questions. He didn't like being on the other end of the questioning.

Claudette seemed to pick up on this sensitive vibe, and she nodded, walking towards the door. "All right," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah,"he mumbled, signing the bottom of the report. Done with that one, on to the next.

Once he had located the paperwork, he realized just how much he had to do. The piles of files looked large, but not this large. It was like the biblical story of the bottle of oil. It just kept coming, no matter how long he worked.

So when the phone rang at half past midnight, he was relieved for the break to answer it but irritated that a portion of his work time was being taken.

"Detective Holland Wagenbach," he answered, using his full and proper name.

"Wagenbach?" Scoffed a familiar female voice at the other end. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Crystal."

"I want you to call me Chris." Her was stern and steady. She sounded rational now, far different from the day's hysterical and crazed version. "I'm sorry for before."

"When you slapped me and called me a cock-sucking bastard?" Dutch asked wryly, leaning back in his chair, still looking at the paperwork left before him.

"Yeah," she said. "That. Look, I am still royally pissed about what happened to my brother-"

"I love the way you go through the stages of grieving," he remarked sarcastically. "I've never seen it done this way before."

"I think you'll realize eventually that I'm a very different person," Chris said with a hint of cruelty to her voice.

"I think I already have," Dutch responded, sensing that he was treading dangerous water.

"I wanted to say sorry for blaming you...again, for what my brother did, and subsequently for the result of his actions."

Dutch was always slightly surprised by how well spoken this ghetto girl could be. He was also surprised by how quickly she recovered from unspeakable rage.

"I know you were just doing your job," she added when he didn't respond.

"You don't have to apologize. You've lost everything in the past year. It's understandable, seeing as he was the only thing you had left."

It was Chris's turn to remain silent on the other end of the line. Dutch was about to say something to break the slightly uncomfortable silence, but then Chris spoke again: "The reason I really called was because I was cleaning out the closet - I'm getting ready to get out of here - and I found a huge Ziploc crammed with pot."

"Pot?"

"Yeah. It has to have been my brothers. I've never seen it before, and I thought I should tell the police."

"Do you want me to drop by and pick it up?"

"No," Chris said after a moment of consideration. "In the morning I'll drive it by."

Feeling a little uncomfortable with this prospect, Dutch asked as carefully as he could, "Are you sure?"

"Positive. Don't worry about it, I don't smoke."

"That's not what I was concerned about-"

"Stop lying. That may be one of the reasons people call you an asshole."

Sighing, Dutch leaned forward against his desk. "All right."

"So, you don't have a life, do you?"

"Hm?"

"You're still at work and it's twelve forty-five. What the Hell? Do you not want to go home and face your ghosts?"

You could say that. "I'm not tired yet."

"You better be getting over time."

"Nah. We're a little short on money at the time, so I don't think that'll be happening."

"That blows."

"It's all right. Good pass time." He paused and looked down at the pile of work. "Look, I've got to get this paperwork under control."

"I got it," Chris said. "Gotta get back to your desk. Your work. God, as much as you work, I'd almost think it excites you or something."

Dutch was unable to stop the thought before it trailed through his mind: Occasionally. Shaking his head in annoyance, he leaned forward. "I'll see you tomorrow." And the phone was slammed back into its cradle.

He began to get back to work, feeling suddenly exhausted.

* * *

Chris was seething as she set the phone back down. She thought she'd returned to a placid place in her mind, but as soon as she heard his ridiculous voice she could feel fire rising in her throat. Her heart felt like it was going to burst in...in not just anger, not just rage, but hate.

She sat there for a moment, trying to calm her nerves by breathing steadily. Steady breathing, steady breathing, trying to flush out the anger-

Rising quickly to her feet in a burst of raw, absolute emotion, she swung a hand, fingers curled in angry claws, throwing the phone across the room and into the opposite wall. A scream was choked down in her throat as it fought with sobs.

Her eyes strayed to the huge bag of weed. It wouldn't be the first time she'd smoked marijuana. She didn't like it, she didn't condone it, but she felt like she needed it.

"Stop," she told herself through chattering teeth, running her fingers through her tangled hair. "Just stop. Stop."

As her fingers caught in her gnarled hair and she blinked tears onto her cheeks, she realized she hadn't brushed her hair in days. She realized she hadn't taken a shower yesterday. She hadn't brushed her teeth since last night, and she hadn't eaten since the dinner Dutch had paid for.

She wasn't hungry, but her hair was driving her nuts and she had a bad taste in her mouth. Plus she felt a little gross, sweat under her arms, a pimple forming on her chin. She felt like she'd just gotten out of a high school gym class and hadn't had the chance to shower.

So she went to the bathroom, the only other room in the apartment besides the bedroom/living room. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, and saw her skin was paler than usual. The darkness under her eyes was darker, almost like two black eyes, her lips were chapped, her hair was wild.

It was about this time she found herself fumbling in drawers for the scissors she used to trim her hair. She didn't have the money to get her hair cut professionally. But she didn't mind. Besides, at this moment all she had in her head was the thought of starting over. Of starting a new life. Quitting her job, moving out of her rat hole apartment, getting a new hairstyle.

The scissors came to her fingertips, and she began hacking away the gnarled locks, which would have become dreadlocks in a few weeks.

Chop chop, snip snip.

The locks fell away until she left with a choppy, messy haircut that was somehow her new sexiest feature. She ran her fingers through her hair, combing the knots away with her fingernails, brushing clippings from the nape of her neck, and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

A ghost. But not just a ghost, the ghost of a complete stranger.

* * *

Her mother, Lola Martinez had stopped by just as she was leaving. She stored the pot away in her purse so her mother wouldn't have to know that part of her baby boy's life. The woman could be spared one ounce of pain.

But she didn't even look as though she had been crying. This woman was stranger than the reflection she had looked into this morning. This woman might be someone she passed on the street, a coke addict who had never even heard of the little boy who had committed suicide in prison.

"My God," the woman snarled when she saw her daughter, "what the Hell were you thinking?"

"What?"

"That hair cut. It's awful."

"I did it myself," Chris chirped with mock pride as she turned in the direction of The Barn, bag of pot in her purse, new haircut and all.

Lola was on her heels, following like a mutt begging for food. "Do you have any money?"

"Why the Hell do you think I would have money?" Chris snapped. "And if I had enough to lend to people for booze and drugs, why should I give it to you?" She looked over her shoulder at her mother.

The woman wasn't old, maybe in her thirties. Her hair was graying and thinning, lines of wear and tear were worn deep into her dark skin. She was the kind of person you could tell had once been beautiful, with long, shinning black hair and slender legs. But too many highs and abusive spouses had turned this angel into a creature God must've messed up on. Teeth were missing, there was a long scar on her right cheek, and she had gained a considerable about of weight around her belly and legs, as well as hunch in her spine.

It was this woman that had Chris convinced to clean herself up, to never even touch alcohol again. It was the thought of this woman that had kept Chris from sneaking some pot last night. She would not end up like this old hag living her life by mooching off others and passing out on the sidewalk.

Looking as if she had taken particular offense to Chris's remark, Lola sped up to walk at her daughter's side. "Why are you so mean to me, huh?" She barked in her thick accent. "Why so cruel to your mother? Why don't you answer me? Goddamn it you like bitch!" Her long, bony fingers wrapped around Chris's wrist, precisely where Dutch had grabbed her the day before. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

As Chris wrenched her arm away, she found herself thinking she much preferred Dutch's touch to her mothers. "No name calling," she said as if she were chiding a child. "Especially when you're being hypocritical." She knew her mother wouldn't understand, which was precisely why she said it.

"What did you say?" The old woman asked, her voice raising steadily.

"I said you're the bitch here," Chris spat back, not even bothering to pay any attention to the fact that she was speaking to her mother. This woman may have given birth to her, but that didn't make her a mother. "And I know what you're going to say next. You're going to call me a hoe and a cheap slut, you'll say I owe you for raising me. So let's just skip to the end of this. I've never sucked a dick for heroin cash, you have. You didn't do shit for me, moving me and all your other bastard children from house to house, from one abusive man to the other, getting high in the living room while we watched cartoons. What do I owe you for that?" And as far as she concerned, the conversation was over.

"Crystal Loretta Martinez!" Lola yelled as Chris marched off down the street. "Get back here right this instant! Crystal!"

* * *

Vic recognized the girl called Crystal sitting outside in the waiting room as he came in. Except, between the time he had seen her yesterday and now, a considerable amount of hair had been lopped from her head. He stopped and looked down at her, and she looked back up. "Are you going to try to cut his balls off this time?" Vic asked, smirk in place.

"I have something to drop off," she murmured quietly. She felt drained after the spat with her mother and very little sleep the night before.

"Tell me it's a knife and I'll let you in."

Chris seemed to consider this for a moment before turning her anger on him. "Fuck you."

"Oh, did I offend you? It looked to me like you were ready to kill him yesterday."

"Yesterday I was," Chris replied. "But today is a new day."

"The same you, the same him," Vic said. Then, tauntingly: "The same dead brother."

Chris's eyes darkened as she looked up at him. "Listen asshole, I get it. You don't like him and you wouldn't mind if I put a bald in his gut. You should have made the offer yesterday, it might have happened. But I here for different reasons today, OK pal?"

"You've got quite a mouth don't yuh?" Vic replied, his voice equally level, but less emotional. She was loosing her cool, while he was keeping his easily intact. When a few moments passes with a helpless silence on her part, Vic smiled again. "I guess I'll leave you alone, then." He walked to the door, glancing through the window. "Buzz me in."

The little annoying buzz and he pushed the door open. As soon as he passed through, Dutch came through in the opposite direction. "How long have you been out here?"  
"Not long."

"Why didn't you ask for me? I would have come."

"I wanted to sit for a while," Chris said as she stood, reaching into her purse and pulling out the pot, handing it to him. "There it is. Do I have sign anything?"

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, you'll probably have to give a statement."

She sighed heavily. All she wanted to do was sleep. "All right," she said. "Right now?"

"It would be best."

"Fine."

"Come on." He turned toward the door, the buzzer buzzed, and he led through the now familiar station toward his desk. "Just sit down right here," he said, motioning to the chair opposite his. "I'll get out all the proper forms in a minute."

He vanished with the bag of pot for a few minutes and returned with papers. "Well," he said, placing them on his desk. "Let's get this started. What a fun second date this will be." He laughed at his own sad little joke. The strange part was, he seemed to realize it was sad.

However, there was an even stranger part that caught Chris a little off guard. She saw his face and heard his voice, and felt not the slightest shred of anger left inside of her. She had finally found the right person to be mad at when she was on her way over. Mother dearest...


	3. Trying to break you in

Chapter 3

Juan Seritaz was a widely known drug dealer. The only reason this burly man with ebony skin hadn't yet been brought in was because he was exceedingly efficient. None of his buyers would confess, there were never any witness to the deals; his house and car were perfectly clean, as well as his money.

Over the past few months, Seritaz had begun to increasingly resemble a tick on the laws back. Unfortunately, any officer who had come remotely close to safely removing him would end up dead or missing.

Now Vic Mackey was on the case. He and the Strike Team had been trailing their man for two days now, and presently he was driving down the street in a car borrowed from a friend.

Vic followed at a safe distance, alone in the car but comfortable in the though that his team was hiding in the shadows at every turn. Even he wasn't sure exactly where the team members had positioned themselves, but they radioed in regularly to let him know they were still there.

"Shit," Vic snarled as the car took a turn on a familiar, dumpy street. He'd been here before a few weeks ago, during the investigation of the now dead Martinez boy. Lifting the walkie up, Vic pressed the appropriate button and said urgently into the Mic, "He's heading towards Crystal's house!"

"Who?" Came the static reply. Obviously the team had already put the pathetic girl out of their minds.

"That piece of ass Dutch is trying to set his teeth in," Vic barked, continuing to follow Seritaz. "It must be about her brother."

"How do you know that's where he's going?"

"He just parked outside," Vic replied irritably as he pulled up to the curb, killing the engine. "Pull in close. Do you see him?"

"Yeah. He's getting out of the car."

"And heading for the door."

"She's on the second floor," Vic said, waiting for the man to vanish inside before getting out of his car. "OK, move in. Slowly, we don't want to tip him off!"

* * *

Stuffing the last of her things into an oversized duffle bag, Chris found she was finally ready to get the Hell out of her shit hole apartment.

With great effort she tugged the zipper across the bag, securely closing the overstuffed bag. She smiled weakly to herself as she looked at the bag, then lifted her eyes to look around the now blank, sadly empty apartment.

She had faded away into her daydream-like thoughts about getting a new job and a new apartment, and didn't hear the footsteps coming towards the door. She was so lost in her thoughts she didn't even hear the doorknob jiggle, and when a fist pounded like a hammer against the weak wood of the door, she jumped off the floor to her feet.

Eyeing the door nervously, Chris walked forward, checking that all three locks were set firmly in place. "Who is?" She asked after a moment, trying to sound tough.

"My name is Juan," boomed the thunder-like voice from the other side of the door. "You Crystal Martinez?"

Hesitating, Chris debated whether or not she should actually answer. "Why do you want to know?"

"I was a friend of your brother," the man replied. "The little fuck owed me some big cash or some big dope."

_Shit!_ Chris jumped back from the door, a scream catching in her throat. She had cleaned everything out. She had nothing for this man. If he got through the door - which he was sure to do, and soon - he would kill her.

In a moment Chris had gone to the phone, which she was planning on leaving here due to the fact that it wasn't of the greatest quality, and began to dial.

_9-11_, she thought as she dialed, her eyes not watching as her fingers traveled over the buttons. As soon as she heard the voice on the other end of the line, she wished she had been paying attention. She hadn't dialed 9-11, not even close.

"Detective Holland Wagenbach."

"What the-"

"Let me in bitch!" The pounding on the door had resumed, and grew louder by the moment.

"Who is this?" Dutch asked from the other end.

"Chris," she replied quickly, crouching down against the wall, scared nearly to tears. "I need help. Someone is trying to break down my door-"

"Are you at home?"

"Yeah, I was just about to leave-"

"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" _Pound, pound, pound_.

A choked cry managed to make its way through her clenched teeth as her hand tightened around the phone. A lone tear trailed down her cheek as she whispered into the phone, "He says his name is Juan."

"Seritaz?"

"I don't know." Her voice was shaking so badly she could hardly understand herself.

"It's OK," Dutch said. "Vic and his team should be in the area. And I'm coming over-"

"Just hurry!" She cried as the door began to splinter.

Another series of poundings on the door and a fist crashed through the weak wood.

Chris let out a frightened cry as she tried to wedge herself between the couch and wall, scared out of her mind. What was she supposed to do? He was breaking _through_ the door, unlocking the locks, he was inside the apartment-

* * *

Shane leaped the last few stairs when he heard the crash coming from around the corner. As he turned he nearly ran into Vic. "Where is he?"

"Just broke in," Vic said. "What took so long?"

"A man stopped us at the door," Shane said as the others joined him. "Let's just go get this asshole."

* * *

Juan's thick hand wrapped around Chris's wrist, jerking her from behind the couch. As he body collided with the ratty piece of furniture, it jumped away from the force about four feet.

By this time, Chris was screaming bloody murder as she kicked wildly and lashed out at his face with long fingernails. "Let me go!"

Dragging her into the open, Juan threw her against the wall. When she made contact with it, it seemed to shake. She slid down to the floor, her eyes squeezed tight and the muscles in her clenched jaw taut with dull, throbbing pain.

"Where's the money?"

When she didn't answer, he raised a hand and brought it down in a hard fist against her face. She cried out as his knuckles cracked against her jaw. Pain shattered through her whole body as she fell flat against the floor.

There was a loud crash, several voices yelling, and the sounds of a scuffle. After a few minutes, the fight noises began to settle. But first, Chris heard a disgusting _thud thud thud_. It was the sound of a nightstick smashing down as hard as possible into the back of a man's head.

"Call an ambulance!" Shouted the rough voice of Vic Mackey.

Chris kept her eyes tightly shut, afraid to open them and see the blood that spilled inevitably from the back of her attackers head, or the blood that she tasted in her mouth and felt running from her nose. She didn't open her eyes until she felt herself being lifted up and cradled.

* * *

When Dutch arrived, a paramedic was loading the bulky body of Juan Seritaz into the back of his ambulance, while another was examining Chris, who sat numbly on the sidewalk. He pulled up to the curb, thankful that Vic and his team really had been in the vicinity.

As he climbed from the car, Vic came to greet him. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" Vic asked with a wry smirk.

"Get out of my way, Mackey."

"Don't you even want to know what happened?"

"I said get the fuck out of my way."

Vic lifted an eyebrow, feigning mild surprise. "She called you, didn't she?"

Dutch didn't even answer as he went around Vic, their shoulders colliding roughly and purposefully.

"Are you OK?" Dutch asked Chris as he approached.

She looked up at him, nodding weakly. Her jaw donned a lump over which dark bruise with a yellowish center lay. Her wrist was bruised as well, and one or two of her fingernails broken roughly away.

"I'm surprised her jaw isn't broken," the paramedic said, "after hearing what that cop had to tell us."

Dutch looked over his shoulder to the cop the paramedic had motioned too. Vic returned the glance before getting in his car and speeding off.

"What did he want?" Dutch asked, his eyes returning to Chris.

"He said my brother owed him money," Chris replied, holding back a yawn.

"She can't stay here tonight," Shane said from a few feet away, preparing to leave as well. "Her door is destroyed and this area is too bad for a girl to be sleeping in a door less apartment."

Sighing heavily, Chris closed her eyes and looked down at her feet. Sadly, that was true. "Is it possible I can stay in station tonight?" She asked quietly. "I can't move into my new apartment until morning."

"Yeah," Dutch said. "I'm sure we could set up a bed..." She looked up at him, her face sad. "You know what? Stay at my house."

"What?"  
"The couch is comfortable, I'm sure you'd sleep well."

Chris looked at the paramedic, as if for advice. The guy just shrugged as he packed up his bag and went back to the ambulance.

A long moment of silence passed before Chris chirped quietly, "It wouldn't be a burden?"

"It would be easier than finding a room for you at The Barn and setting up a bed," Dutch replied easily.

The ease with which Dutch spoke made Chris all the more uneasy. She didn't know Dutch well; she wasn't even all that fond of him. OK, maybe she was a little fond. After all, her fingers had dialed his number when her mind had been thinking 9-11.

"All right," she whispered harshly, almost bitterly. "Just tonight, though."

"Of course."


	4. 5556969

Chapter 4

Dutch walked in the door, trying to be quiet.

After setting Chris up on the couch he had had to go back to the station to finish off some work and pick up some files, but he had been held up when he got in an argument with a man who had come in to report something or other.

Creeping past the couch, Dutch had to stop for a moment and kick off his shoes. He paused before going on, looking over the back of the couch at Chris's sleeping form, her small body curled up under the thick blanket Dutch had lent to her. She was sleeping soundly; the blanket pulled up to her chin. The blanket lay loosely over her form, falling just right so that he could tell her legs were curled up to her stomach and her arms were wrapped around herself.

Letting out a long, shuddering sigh, Dutch continued across the living room and into the bathroom.

Turning on the hot water in the shower, Dutch stepped back and untied his tie as he waited for the water to heat up. He pulled off his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt, the water cascading into the tub behind him.

Next the belt, the pants, the boxers, all clothes disregarded on the floor.

As he stepped into the shower, the water splashed over his head, plastering his hair against his scalp. Running his fingers through his sopping hair and smoothing it away from his face, he stood under the water for a moment, the water scalding over his skin, almost painful but not quite. The liquid heat ran over his shoulder, down his chest and belly.

He closed his eyes savoring the feel of the water rushing over his skin. A frown touched his face as he lifted a hand between his thighs as the water burned his skin and his thoughts turned to the girls sleeping in the living room...

Chris woke suddenly, her head pounding.

Wincing and putting a hand to her head, Chris sat up and opened her eyes, trying to remember where she was. _Oh yeah, Dutch's house_.

Light was beginning to filter through the windows, filling the room with the gray morning sun. But Chris wasn't in the mood to admire the sun sparkling on the shiny clean coffee table. She just wanted something to dull the pain in her head.

When she heard a door open somewhere behind her, she spun in her place on the couch to see Dutch walking from his room, tightening his tie.

"Good morning," Dutch said, sounding fairly cheery.

"Morning," Chris groaned, relaxing back into the couch.

"You feeling OK?"

"I have a headache."

"Oh, just a sec." He vanished back down the hall and returned with a bottle of Ibuprofen. "Here. How bad is it?"

"I know how many to take," Chris replied irritably. She wasn't much of a morning person and her whole body ached.

"How're those bruises?" Dutch asked, ignoring the malice in her last remark.

After popping two of the little red pills in her mouth and swallowing them thickly, she looked up at him then touched her jaw. She had almost forgotten how horrible she looked. She felt the huge bump under her fingers, and it stung as she touched it.

"It feels probably about as good as it looks," she said, now turning her attention to the finger-shaped bruises wrapped around her wrist. "My God, he did a number on me," she muttered as she stood. But she only got a few inches off the couch before she winced and sat back down.

"What's wrong?"

"My hip..." She got to her feet, this time braced for the pinching pain in her joint. She remembered crashing into the couch, and lifted her shirt, pushing her pajama bottoms down a bit to reveal a huge bruise on her hipbone.

Behind her, Dutch swallowed thickly, looking at the bruise. That must have hurt horribly.

She lowered her shirt down again and looked back up at Dutch starting to wake up and feel better. "Thank you for letting me stay here."

"No problem," Dutch said, picking up the blanket and folding it. "I'll drop you and your stuff off at your new apartment."

Allowing a smile to sneak onto her lips, Chris nodded. "That would be great, thank you," she said sincerely.

"Do you need help with your bags?" Dutch asked as he pulled up beside the curb in front of a shabby building. It may not have been the greatest apartment complex, but it was definitely better than her last.

"No," she said, as she got out and retrieved her duffle bags from the back seat. "I only have two."

She paused and bit her lip thoughtfully before closing the car door and heading up to her new apartment. "My new number is 555-6969."

It was Dutch's turn to allow a grin to seep into his features.

"Thanks again," she said before closing the door, and cutting off anything he had been planning on saying.


	5. First kiss

Chapter 5

Two weeks had passed as well as several dates. Today was waiting another date, a lunch date this time. Chris had come to The Barn to meet Dutch for his lunch break. But Dutch was a little behind, and she had been waiting for him for ten minutes, tapping her foot on the cool, dirty tile floor.

Each time he walked past the glass door, Vic noticed Chris sitting in the waiting room, the bruise on her jaw just as dark as it had been two weeks earlier, though the lump had subsided somewhat. About the fifth time he noticed her still waiting, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Dutch hurriedly trying to shuffle some paperwork into alphabetical order.

Grinning at himself with the thought of tormenting Dutch just a little more than usual, Vic opened the door and walked out into the waiting room. "Hey Crystal," he said in a fairly friendly tone. "You waiting for Dutch Boy I assume?"  
Her eyes flickered up at him briefly. "Yeah."

"How long have you been waiting? It seems like you've been out here for quite a while."

"Ten minutes," she said, watching her toe tap up and down against the tile. "Not as long as you would like to think."

"Hey," Vic said, sitting down beside her. "I'm just trying to be friendly. I get the feeling you don't like me much."

"Really?" Chris said, lifting her eyes to meet his. "I guess it's not as blatantly obvious as I had intended it to be."

"Well, I'm sorry for some of the things I said before. They were uncalled for," he said, sounding sincere. "I may hate Wagenbach, but that doesn't me you and I can't co-exist."

"I wasn't really planning on being around enough for us to have to," Chris said after a moment, sounding slightly exasperated.

"How's your jaw?" Vic asked, changing the subject.

"Sore."

"What about that wrist of yours?" His eyes shifted down to her exposed wrist, where the bruise was fading nicely.

"Pretty good," she said, fingering the remaining darkness about her wrist. She let a moment of quiet pass before saying softly, "Sorry for being a bitch. I guess you're not as bad as I thought you were."

"I gave you reason to dislike me, so you don't have to say sorry." He grinned. "So you're dating Dutch, huh?" She just nodded, not looking at Vic. She seemed to have become much shyer in the past few moments, and was avoiding eye contact. "What drove you to that?" He kept his voice light, joking, while underneath the tone the question was all too cynical and real.

Not hearing the subliminal tones in Vic's voice, Chris smiled a little, and leaned back into her chair. But she didn't say anything, just kept quiet and a little withdrawn.

Leaning forward a little, Vic touched Chris's knee, waiting for her to turn her eyes to him.

Her eyes flashed to Vic's fingers, lingering lightly on her knee. They lay there steadily for a few moment before she turned her eyes up to meet his cool, icy blue ones.

"Seriously," he said with a small smile, "what drove you to that?" All jokes had fallen from his voice.

At that instant the door flew open and Dutch entered the waiting room like a storm. "What the Hell?"

Vic turned now to Dutch, grinning, pleased with himself. He stood, and almost in the same movement so did Chris. Vic's movement was exactly what it seemed: a response to an unspoken challenge. Chris's jump to her feet was a defensive one, a motion that said "I don't need you to protect me."

"I was just talking with your girl here," Vic said with a grin, brushing roughly by and through the doors as he was buzzed in.

Dutch watched him go, dripping with contempt that could not have been more obvious.

"Dutch," Chris said, taking a step forward as he turned back to her. "I don't know what he was doing, but can we just go and forget about it?"

Sighing heavily, Dutch pulled himself as tall as he could. He seemed to be pushing his outrage at Vic from him as he moved. "All right," he said after a moment. "Shall we go?" He asked as he motioned to the door.

* * *

Claudette had seen Dutch walking to the door, getting ready to cut out for an hour or so, then speed up and crash through the door. Only moments later she saw Vic come through the door with an arrogant smirk plastered on his face. 

"What did you do now?" She asked, her voice a little vicious.

"I reminded Dutch Boy that my dick is bigger than his," Vic said laughingly as he passed her desk.

Claudette just watched him go, thinking it better to keep quiet for now than to get in his face for something she could nothing about. But she was watching him, keeping a close eye for the extracurricular activities she was positive he participated in on a regular basis.

He couldn't avoid the spotlight forever. Sooner or later someone was going to catch him red handed and then everyone would know that he was dirty.

* * *

Dutch hit his horn as he passed a man who was getting out of his sloppily parked car. The man responded by letting his middle finger fly, but Dutch didn't notice. 

Chris, however, was waving apologetically. "Don't do that," she said.

"What?" Dutch asked. "The guy was in two parking spaces."

"So let the traffic cops take care of it," Chris said, looking at him. "But I don't remember anything in the driving manual saying it was OK to honk at people. Even if you are a cop."

"Hey, can I see your back seat driver's license?" Dutch asked, smiling as he looked over to her.

With a grin, she reached over and tapped the badge hanging on Dutch's hip. "I'm just saying, don't use this as an excuse to do whatever."

"You're trying to whip me," Dutch replied. "It has nothing to so with the shield, or the fact that I like to honk at people who suck at driving."

"So we're at a place where I can whip you?" Chris asked, relaxing into the car's comfortable passenger seat.

"Well, you're trying, so I guess so."

"Does that mean I'm your girlfriend?" Chris asked teasingly, reaching over and poking him in the arm like a child trying to irritate her sibling. "Huh?" She poked him again, smiling.

"Stop it," Dutch growled, swatting at her. "And yeah. That's kinda what I was thinking." He glanced at her, seizing the steering wheel firmly with both hands.

Grinning like a flirtatious teen girl, Chris looked out the window, curling her legs up on the seat. "Cool," she murmured. "And to think that three weeks ago I wanted to kill you."

Dutch grinned, pulling over by the curb in front of a café. "Is this it?" He asked, looking out at the fancy little coffeehouse.

"Yes," Chris said, looking out at it as well. "This is my new place of work." Her voice held a certain pride in that statement. It was much better than the broken down coffee shack she had been working in before, and she made three dollars an hour more.

"This is nice," Dutch said, getting out and locking the car door behind him.

"I know it is," Chris said with a smile, imitating him and jumping out of the car. "I love it. And most of the people are really nice, and my boss likes me."

"Well," Dutch said, "let's see the inside." He wrapped his arm around her waist as they headed towards the door.

Inside the lights were dim and relaxing, and the place smelled sweet and powerfully of coffee grounds. There were several people relaxing at the small round tables, reading and sipping coffee or tea. The paintings on the walls were gorgeous modern pieces by poor artists who lived in the area. There were more than one might think, and unfortunately many of them were arrested several times for illegal use of drugs such as marijuana and shrooms.

"This is very nice," Dutch said, looking around. "Much better than most places around here."

"It really is," Chris agreed. "And we hardly ever get any trouble." She paused and looked towards the counter. "Sit down. I'll get some muffins or something."

"All right."

"Do you want some coffee?"

"Yes, please," Dutch said as h e pulled up a chair.

When the lunch date was over, which was about ten minutes later, Dutch had to leave Chris at the coffeehouse because her shift was starting.

"I'll see you tonight," Dutch said at the door.

"OK," Chris said with a nod. "Should I just come over?"

"Yeah," Dutch said. "If I'm not there just let yourself in." He bent down to her, hid lips brushing hers in a brief, soft kiss. "Bye," he said before vanishing out the door.

Chris couldn't help the smile that broke over her face as she watched him through the window until his car was out of sight.

"Chris," cooed a coworker, walking up beside her. "Was that your boyfriend?" She asked, giggling a little.

"Yeah," Chris said with a smile. "But that, my friend, is none of your business."


	6. Sleep Over

Chapter 6

It was eleven thirty, and Chris was curled up on the couch with a cup of tea when Dutch finally got home. She looked up from the TV with a grin when he walked in. "Hey," she said. "How'd the rest of your day go?"

He shrugged, dropping his jacket by the door and loosening his tie. "It was long," he said. "And I'm exhausted."

"Do you want something to eat?"

"Nah," he said as he pulled the tie loose of his collar and began to unbutton his shirt. "I think I just want to take a shower and lay down. Sorry-"

"No, it's OK," Chris said, setting aside her tea. "I'll be gone in an hour, probably."

Dutch looked at her apologetically. "I wish we could have done something tonight."

"Yeah, but that's OK," Chris said again, picking up his jacket and tie. "Just go take a shower."

Eyeing her strangely as he folded the jacket and tie over her arm, Dutch nodded and walked down the hall to the bathroom.

* * *

Men seemed to take offense to doing their own laundry. At least that was what Chris had decided when she gathered all of Dutch's laundry and shoved it in the washing machine.

She didn't feel like leaving, so she kept searching for excuses to stay. Part of it was that Dutch's house was so much nicer than her little apartment, and part of it was that over the past few weeks she had grown so attached to Dutch that she hated saying goodbye.

_Laundry, dishes, what else can I do?_ Chris thought as she loaded dishes into the dishwasher. She felt like a common housewife, but that didn't feel too bad.

"What are you still doing here?" Dutch asked, sneaking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.

She jumped slightly, but laughed after a moment. "Your house is a disaster," she said. "I thought I would clean it up for you?"

"Thank you," Dutch said, kissing her neck softly. "But you didn't have to. It was fine."

"No, it wasn't," Chris said, pulling away and turning to face him. "Do you feel better?"

His damp hair hung stubbornly in its typical style, and he wore a simply white tee-shirt and black sweatpants that were tattered at the ankle. She noticed now that he was slightly pale and dark circles hung under his eyes.

"Yeah, I do feel a little better," Dutch replied after a moment.

In the other room, the little sandy-gray cat Dutch lovingly called Claudy mewed slightly impatiently.

"How long has been since you fed her?" Chris asked, walking past him into the living room, scooping up the furry creature in her arms and scratching her ears.

"I gave her a bowl of food this morning," Dutch said, following Chris. "It was a big bowl. She's fine."

Sighing, Chris replaced the cat on the couch and turned to Dutch. "I guess I should get out of here."

"You don't have to," Dutch said, slightly suggestive.

Grinning wryly, Chris slipped her hands in her pockets and swung her hips slightly. "Can I stay even if we don't screw around?"

Dutch seemed to consider, looking slightly put out. But he nodded and grinned a little, still looking utterly exhausted. "Why not?"

Chris smiled broadly. "It's been a while since I've had a sleep over."

Rolling his eyes, Dutch walked down the hall to his bedroom.

After a few moments, Chris proceeded to follow Dutch to his bedroom. When she slipped in, he had already ducked under the covers and had them pulled up to his ears.

Jumping on the big bed beside him, Chris leaned back on the headboard and looked to the bedside table. There lay a thick paper back copy of Victor Hugo's _Les Misérables_ with a yellow slip of paper sticking neatly out of the center of the book.

Picking it up, Chris began to flip through absently, reading a few sentences here and there. "Is this good?" She asked.

"What?" Dutch asked, his voice muffled by the thick covers and the pillow he'd shoved his face against.

"_Les Misérables_. Is it as good as people say it is?"

"Mm-hm."

She took that for a yes and closed the book, laying it back on top of the desk. She flicked the light off and slipped under the covers, laying as close to him as she could. He'd removed the tee-shirt he had been wearing, so she lay her cheek against the bare, warm skin of his back, finding herself suddenly sleepy.


	7. Inexperience

Chapter 7

One in the morning struck with a horrible lightning bolt of pain through her skull. She sat up with a sharp cry, pressing the heels of her palms against her temples. "Oh God,"she muttered after a moment.

Still half asleep, Dutch had rolled over and mumbled something she couldn't really understand.

"Migraine," she said, assuming he had asked what was wrong. "The Ibuprofen is behind the mirror, right?"

He nodded vaguely and mumbled something again before vanishing back into sleep.

Throwing back the covers, Chris stumbled to her feet and fumbled her way to the door, then down the hall and to the bathroom. She pushed open the door and flicked on the light, which aggravated her headache all the more and painfully blinded her for a moment.

When her vision had cleared, Chris went to the mirror and pulled it open. She reached for the bottle of Ibuprofen and pulled it down, along with a cascade of other items such as disposable razors and toothpaste. They all crashed down into the sink, causing Chris to startle back a few steps.

Taking a deep breath as she realized that she had just knocked some things from the shelf, she stepped forward to replace them, her head aching more than ever.

As she lifted the toothpaste back to its shelf, she saw an off-white object in the back corner of the shelf, clashing with the sterile white color of the shelf itself. It took a moment for it to dawn on her what this object was, but from the instant she saw it she knew that it didn't belong.

Reaching forward, she took the small, slightly oval-shaped object down and turned it over in her hand. She slipped her fingers up inside the sockets, holding it up before her, little fangs still intact.

A cat skull.

_What the Hell?_ She thought as she lowered it, her eyes still scanning the relatively smooth surface of the forehead and the top of the head, back to the rounded temples near the base. The eye sockets were huge, bigger than she would have imagined. The underside was a rougher landscape, from the opening tot he spinal cord at the base of the skull to two small bulges just below it, and further down to the roof of the mouth where the teeth arched from just under each eye socket, each one intact.

She lifted her eyes and looked out the door of the bathroom, migraine forgotten. She had almost expected him to be standing there, watching her, dark clouds shadowing his eyes. But the doorway was empty.

_It's still early enough to escape unscathed_, Chris thought, a thousand scenarios running through her head. She had stumbled upon a man who, at first glance, seemed kind and dutiful, but who kept bizarre treasures stashed around the house. Treasures like animal parts.

Kicking herself, she wrapped her fingers over the small skull and gently squeezed it. _Why did I even get involved with him?_ She thought, silently cursing herself. _He put your baby brother in jail to be raped! He was responsible for your brother's suicide!_

Taking a deep breath, she walked at quietly as she could from the bathroom and towards the bedroom. She wasn't just going to leave. No, unfortunately there was still a corner of her mind whispering: _It's not that big of a deal_._ Just ask him what the Hell is up, talk about it_._ He's a good guy_._ What happened with your brother_..._well, he was just doing his job_.

Pushing open the door, Chris reached for the light switch and flicked it on.

Dutch winced slightly and pulled the covers over his face and turned away from her, like a child.

"Wake up, Dutch," she said a commanding voice, masking the nagging little fears that he was truly a psychotic in the making.

"What?" he mumbled, not moving.

"Please," she said quietly. "Wake up."

"What is it?" He asked irritably, sitting up, squinting through the light at her.

Holding up the skull, she tried not to take her eyes off his face. "What is this?" She asked. "Why was it in your bathroom?"

Now she had his attention. He saw the skull and sat up straighter as Claudy wound her way between Chris's legs and into the bedroom.

"Well?" She persisted.

He opened his mouth, but frowned, and tilted his head a little. "Wait," he said, "why were you snooping around in my bathroom?"

"I was looking for some fucking medicine for my head!" Chris shouted. "Just now, I woke up and asked you if it was in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and you said yes. So I went to get it and I found this. What is it?"

He hesitated before carefully saying, "A cat skull."

Closing her eyes, Chris shook her head irritably. "No, I mean - I know that. Why was it in your bathroom?"

Once against he paused to think, but came up with nothing.

"Where did you get it, then?" She asked.

Sighing a little, he leaned back against the headboard. "I killed the last cat I had," he said bluntly.

"Why?"

"I-" He stopped, again. "I don't know."

"Bullshit."

This seemed to ignite something in him. He sat up straight again, got to his feet, his eyes darkened. He took several steps forward, nearly stepping on Claudy as she passed. "You wouldn't understand."

"How are you so sure?" Chris asked, becoming increasingly nervous.

"Have you ever killed anything? Not bugs - ants, spiders, everyone has done that."

"I hit a dog on the head with a brick," she said, her voice revealing her fear. "It tried to attack my brother."

"When you struck the dog," he said, coming closer, so close she could feel his breath on her face. "How did you feel?"

"I was scared," she said, the words so quiet they were barley audible.

"I heard once that the moment before death, animals have the most...compassionate look in their eyes," he said, his hands coming up a little, clenching into fists. "Pleading not to be pushed all the way into death. _That _is bullshit."

Chris had lowered the skull to her side, and it began to slip from her fingers. It fell, and hit the floor with a dull _bump_ and bounced once to the side, hitting the wall.

"What you see," he held his hand up, his fingers clenched and curled like claws. "What you see is the strangest, cruelest thing. All the fear in the world. Hate for what you're doing. Love for your mercy..." His hand was shaking, he was even closer than he had been moments before.

"Dutch," she whispered, backing up and striking the doorframe. She couldn't move back any further without twisting around the frame, and that motion would have brought her closer to him before it put distance between them. "You're scaring me."

The darkness in his eyes faded suddenly, and sorrow touched his features. He took a step back, and ran his fingers nervously through his hair. "Shit," he mumbled with a laugh that was half apologetic and half nervous. "God, I'm sorry...Please, please don't be scared - I didn't mean to-"

"I've read enough psyche books to know that serial killers always start with animals," she said dumbly, her eyes glancing down at the cat skull on the floor.

"Fuck!" Dutch said, taking another step forward. "I'm not a fucking serial killer! They do that when they're kids! I killed the fucking cat to test what I was told."

"Why was that necessary?" Chris asked, edging around the door frame. "There's something wrong with you, Dutch. You need help-"

"I'm not a chapter in one of your fucking psychology books," Dutch growled, taking yet another step forward. Then he stopped, mortified. "Christ."

The Cuddler Rapist. That was what he had said to Dutch during an interrogation. _There is something wrong me, isn't there?_

"Oh my God," he whispered again, feeling slightly weak, feeling a little sick. "I am so sorry." He looked down at his feet, running his fingers through his hair again. When he lifted his eyes, Chris was about to run down the hallway. "Wait! No!"

She jerked to a stop, tears gathering in her eyes. Why hadn't she just left? Why had she been so goddamn stupid!

"I am so sorry, Chris," Dutch whispered, walking forward and reaching out. He took her hand and pulled her back around. "I am so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Please, don't be scared of me...I would never hurt you."

As she lifted her eyes she saw that in his eyes there were tears to. What had just happened?

"Please trust me."

"I'm not sure that I can," Chris said weakly, backing away from his touch, turning and walking down the hall.

Behind her she heard a dull but heavy thud, the sound of a man falling to his knees. "I'm not a bad person!" Dutch shouted down the hall, his voice sounding so much different than it had just minutes ago. "I would never hurt you! I've known you for a month and I think I love you!"

Chris all but fell over her own two feet. She caught herself, throwing her hands out to brace herself on the walls. She looked down at her feet, a single tear trailing down her cheek.

"Please, Crystal," Dutch said weakly, "don't leave."

_A fucking cat skull,_ Chris told herself. _A fucking cat skull! _But no, her fear didn't so much stem from the cat skull as it did from what he said and the way he had said it, the brief insanity that had flickered in the depths of his dilated pupils, the way his eyes had grown dark and something had seemed to light up inside of him like a fire. What she had felt before, seeing the cat skull, was it really fear of him or fear of getting hurt? Fear of getting too committed and being torn in half?

_Shit_. _What am I supposed to do?_

She lifted her head and tilted her face back to look at the plain white ceiling, blinking back more tears.

"Please," he whispered behind her.

Turning slowly, Chris looked back at him, on his knees, looking so helpless. How had he been brought down like this? Where had the pain etched in his face come from? Chris knew that she wasn't all of it. She wasn't that good. She was surprised he had ever wanted to get to know her in the first place.

But the way he looked at her, pleading silently for her to come back...

Chris found her feet moving below her, carrying her down the hall and through the bedroom door till she stood in front of Dutch. She ran her finger's through her hair as he leaned his head forward against her thighs, his hands going up around her waist. She took his hands from her waist and pulled him up.

For a moment he looked down into her face, bewildered that she had returned, not complete understanding what had just happened and not really wanting to.

He touched her face, pulled her gently closer and bent down, pressing his lips to hers. She tilted her head up to meet his lips, her parting as they touched, wanting the kiss. Longing for the touch of his soft, moist lips on hers.

She found herself pulling closer to him, her arms wrapping around him, her fingers trailing up and down the line of his back. She was leaning against him, he was holding her up now. And he stepped back, carrying her along with him.

The moment was shattered slightly as Dutch stumbled on something and fell back onto the bed, bringing Chris with her. They both looked down in time to Claudy running from the room, deeply insulted at having been stepped on.

They both laughed lightly, recovering quickly from the embarrassing moment.

Dutch lay his head back on the mattress, and Chris pulled herself over him, pressing her lips to his, straddling his waist. His hands slid up the curve of her waist and over her ribs under her shirt, pushing it up over her shoulders. She lifted her arms, allowing him to pull it completely free of her body.

A stray smile touched her lips at the complete absurdity of all this. She couldn't quite understand what had happened here to bring them together like this, and she could see by the way he returned her smile that he didn't either.

His hands moved over her shoulders as she bent down to kiss him again. She kissed his lips, then his cheeks, his neck, and his chest. His hands moved over her shoulder blades, releasing her bra, his fingers impatient.

Turning her face away shyly, she pulled the bra straps over her arms and tossed it aside. She sensed a soft smile on Dutch's face as he sat up, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. She let her hands trail down his sides to his sweat pants, where they lingered for a moment.

Lifting her to the side, Dutch pulled his sweat pants from his body as Chris undid her pants and pulled them down along with her underwear, kicking them aside, cursing the ridiculous clothes.

She had barely lifted her eyes when Dutch pulled her back to him, and nervously she slid her legs over his hips, feeling the sudden pressure of his erection underneath her. She caught her breath from a moment, not seeing much as he pulled close to him, leaning her chin over his shoulder.

She wasn't a virgin, just inexperienced. Dutch realized this instantly when she caught her breath, as if she were frightened.

His hand ran down to the small of her back, pulling her closer, pressing deep inside her. He moaned as she bit her lip to restrain hers. He pressed her back, down onto the mattress as he moved inside her.

Laying beneath him as his body moved rhythmically against hers, she felt her tense body relax a little as he pulled him closer, kissing him, and soon she found her body moving with his.

Finally a moan escaped through her lips as her hands fell to her sides, her fingers taking up handfuls of the sheets and squeezing as hard as she could as a strange, unfamiliar feels shot through her. "Oh God," she murmured as Dutch kissed her breast bone, his hands moving over her body, fondling her breasts and trailing over her scarred arms. "Dutch," she gasped, arching her back a little as the feeling spread shockingly. "Dutch!"

He kissed her cheeks and her lips, murmuring something in her ear. But she couldn't seem to understand. A moment later he gasped, taking hold of her hands, wrapping his fingers over them protectively and squeezing lightly.

Chris felt something happen inside her as the feeling of complete ecstasy begin to slowly fade away.


	8. Self Degradation

Chapter 8

Dutch sat down again on the bed, offering a blueberry to Chris. She accepted with a small smile, and popped the berry into her mouth.

He eyed her arms as he shoved a handful of berries into his mouth. "So," he said through the mouthful of berries, "tell me about those scars."

Chris looked at her arms and shrugged. "It happened a while ago," she said.

"These looks recent," Dutch said, running a fingertip over straight purple scars over her wrists.

"Yeah," she murmured, looking almost admirably. "I did this when you put my baby brother in jail."

His eyes moved back up to her face, locked on her for a moment. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's not your fault," she said.

"Tell me about them," Dutch asked again, pulling back the covers and running his fingers over the scars that etched her sides.

Chris found his hand with hers and lifted it to her mouth, pressing her lips to his fingers. "I started when my dad went to jail," she said. "Illegal drug possession. It got worse after my mother got raped. That was when she got pregnant with my baby brother."

Dutch pressed his lips to her forehead, stroking her hair back from her face. "You're not doing it anymore, though...right?"

"Yeah," she murmured. Her voice was quiet and faded, her mind lost in thought. "Hey, would you do something...?"

"What?"

Turning away from him and bending over the side of the bed, Chris picked up her pants and dug through the pockets. She pulled out a tiny penknife and handed it to him.

Reluctantly he took it, not taking his eyes from her. "What?"

"Carve your name."

He frowned a little bit. "What?"

She lifted her left leg a little bit and traced a finger up the inside of her thigh.

Firmly Dutch shook his head and reached over her, putting the knife down on the bedside table. "No," he said. "I can't-"

"Why not?"

"Don't you recall a few hours ago when I said I would never hurt you?"

"This isn't the same-"

"What makes it different?"

"I'm asking you to do it."

Opening his mouth to protest, Dutch found no words with which to protest. He thought a moment, his eyes locked on hers. "But...why?"

"I want it," was her simple, un-explanatory answer.

Sighing as she handed the knife back to him, Dutch took it and looked down at it. "Only if you'll carve your name on my back."

"OK," she said, nodding slightly.

Dutch licked his dried lips as he bent forward, holding her leg up. He pressed the point of the knife against the skin until it broke through and a thin trickle of blood ran over her flesh. She flinched as he drew the blade downward through the flesh, leaving a deep red line in her leg...

D...U...T...C...H. Thirteen cuts all together.

Lifting his eyes from his bloody work on her leg, his looked to her face and saw tears in her eyes. "Did it hurt?" He asked.

"Yeah," she said, taking the knife from him and cupping a hand over the bleeding marks on her leg.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, feeling strange, having just cut his name into living human flesh.

"Don't be," she said as she sat up, and kissed his cheek. "Thank you."

He turned his back to her and she ran her hand over the smooth skin between his shoulder blades. She hesitated before firmly pinching the knife firmly between her fingers and pressing the blade to his soft, pale skin. Blood sprouted from the point of the knife and he flinched slightly as she began to carve.

C...R...Y...S...T...A...L.

Thin lines of blood trickled down his back, which seemed even paler compared to the deep crimson blood that ran freely down his spine. She pressed her hands over the cuts, dropping the knife to the floor.

Reaching over his shoulder, he covered one of her hands with his. "What's it mean?" He mumbled.

"I don't know..."

"We belong to each other now," he said, lifting his head and looking over his shoulder at her.

She smiled weakly and nodded, wrapping her arms around him. "Yeah," she said. "I belong to you."

"You belong to me," Dutch whispered, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles.

Smiling, Crystal kissed his neck and jumped back from him, skipping over to the CD player in her underwear and his tee-shirt, now spotted with his blood. She turned on the CD Player and pressed play, to find a John Lennon CD already in. "Does it have #9 Dream?" She asked.

"Yeah," Dutch said, leaning forward on his bed, feeling the flesh of his shoulders stiffening. "Song ten."

She turned it on with a grin and spun on her tiptoes, then began to dance, blood still trickling down the inside of her thigh.


	9. Dog Fight

Chapter 9

Dutch strode towards his desk a few hours later, the flesh of his back still sore from the cuts there. But as he walked he felt like he was floating, like he was high.

"Good morning, Dutch," Claudette said kindly, looking up briefly from her paperwork and back down. But her eyes snapped up again. "My God, Dutch. You look like you didn't sleep at all last night!"

"Just less than usual," Dutch said, hardly recognizing his own voice. He sat down and opened a drawer, sifting through files until he found the one he wanted. He had looked in the mirror this morning while brushing his teeth, and it was true. He looked pretty bad. He was much paler than a on a normal day, and the circles under his eyes were much darker. But he _felt_ better than he usually did, and that was what mattered.

"Are you OK, Dutch?" Claudette asked, suddenly at his side.

"Hm?" He looked up at her, a little startled by her sudden appearance beside him. "What do you mean? I feel great."

"You sound different, and look different."

"I only got a few hours last night, that's probably why," Dutch said in an explanatory half-truth.

Claudette was silent for a moment, then she asked quietly, "Did something happen with Crystal?"

He looked up at her once more. "I guess that depends on what exactly you mean."

"There wasn't a fight, was there?"

"Yeah, there was."

"Did everything turn out OK?"

Remaining quiet, he just nodded and turned back to folder, flipping it open and scanning the first page. But he found himself rereading that same page when he soaked up none of the information there.

"Dutch?"

"Yes?"

"Are you sure everything is OK?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Dutch said, sounding a little impatient but really fine with her inquiries.

"All right," she said, patting him lightly on the back.

Flinching, Dutch instinctively, grabbed at his shoulder before he could stop himself. He looked up sheepishly at Claudette, who was eyeing him strangely. He retuned his hands to his desk, palms flat on the mess of paperwork.

"What was that?" Claudette asked.

"Nothing, just a little sore is all."

"From what?"

"Who knows," Dutch said, shrugging stiffly.

"He's probably just sore 'cause he's not used to the workout of sex," Vic chimed in as he passed. Then, over his shoulder: "How's your bitch, anyway?"

"Don't call her that," Dutch growled. "And none of that is any of your business."

"What?" Vic persisted, turning on his heel to fully face Dutch as he spoke to him. "You don't want to talk about your hoe with an old friend?"

Dutch rose, the movement irritating the cuts on his shoulders. "I said _don't_."

"Well, you have to admit," Vic said with a careless shrug, "the girl has got to be a hoe to willing sleep with _you_."

Stepping around this desk and just barely finding the will to restrain himself, Dutch leaned back on the desk and grinned wryly. "A little hostile this morning, aren't yuh?" He hissed. "Jealous?"

"Of what?" Vic scoffed. "Of you tiny dick? I'm fine, thanks." He turned to continue towards the Strike Team's room.

"Now you're running away," Dutch said loudly. "My, my, my! What has become of the infamous Vic Mackey? The dirty cop I'm sure everyone knows took down the Armenian mob for the money train and deals with pimps and drug handlers."

Vic froze at the words, not so much the insult behind them, rather the mention of the Armenian mob. He thought he'd left that behind, but here it was. Dutch Boy had brought it back up...again.

Slowly, Vic turned to look at him, then stepped forward, and quickly strode across the room till he was face-to-face with Dutch. "You know you have nothing," Vic snarled. "You never fucking did!"

"What's the matter, Vic?" Dutch replied dryly. "Scared? Are you needing a shoulder to cry on?"

Lifting his hands roughly against Dutch's chest, Vic set him back hard on his desk, sending paperwork flying to the ground. "Shut the fuck up, dick."

Dutch only laughed. "Maybe next time you'll just think a little bit before you open your fat fucking mouth."

For a moment moth men just stared at each other, eyes locked, silent, like bristling dogs sizing each other up.

Several people were watching, but most had decided it was wiser to move on with their business, and so they scampered along their way, leaving only a few brown-nosers to await the results. It seemed like several minutes had passed before only two or three people were left, and Vic stepped back from Dutch.

"I don't have any time for your shit," Vic snarled, jabbing a finger in Dutch's direction. "Just keep your nose where it belongs and no one will get hurt."

"Oh, I'm shaking in my books," Dutch drawled as Vic walked off, each word oozing sarcasm.

"Dutch," Claudette hissed after the remaining few viewers had wandered off. "What the Hell has gotten into you?"

_Something bad,_ Dutch thought as he stood with a smile and looked back at Claudette. "Something I like."

* * *

A half an hour after his conflict with Dutch, Vic snuck out the back door and hoped in a car, driving himself down town.

He pulled up against a curb where a small group of hookers stood smoking some cigarettes and drinking Cola. "hey," he barked as he rolled down the window. "Vicky!"

A girl with ebony skin who couldn't have been older than sixteen stroke over in her ratty stiletto boots, purple miniskirt and black halter top. "hey Mackey," she cooed as she leaned into the window, making sure to show off her cleavage. "What can I do for you today?"

"I need to speak with Connor," Vic said, hanging her a twenty, which she promptly stored in her bra.

"What 'bout?"

"A nuisance that could get him thrown in jail," Vic said. "Much like I might do to you if you don't just tell me where he is."

Vicky seemed to consider this before backing away from the window and pointing down the street. "There's a crack house on 11th and Brooks. Has a purple door outside. Tell them your lookin' for Chief and they'll take yuh right to him."

"Thank you," Vic said with a wink. "I'll be sure to tell him what a good job you're doing."

The crack house was easy enought o find, but harder to get into than Vicky had said.

He pounded on the door, and after a few moments a scrawny Asian boy with bleached hair opened the door and peered out. "I'm looking for Chief," Vic said.

"Nope," the boy replied with an thick accent. "Wrong place, man."

Just as the boy had been preparing to close the door, Vic had stuck the toe of his boot inside, grabbed the edge of the door and shoved as hard as he could. He heard the wood crack against the boys face and a dull thud as he fell back on the floor.

Vic stepped in and over the boy, who was huddled on the floor, cringing as he held his broken nose, blood slipping from between his fingers. "Let's try this again," Vic said as he bent down, pushing the boy's face against the ground. "Tell me where Connor McKay is. I hear he likes to be called Chief. You have any idea who I'm talking about, Jap?"

"Yes!" The boy cried, flailing a had towards a pair of stairs at the hallway. "Second door on the right! He's with a girl though-"

Vic pushed off the boy's head and strode towards the stairs, taking them three at a time. He burst in the door to find a girl well underage with her face in Connor's crotch, her mouth over his penis.

"Holy shit!" Connor snapped, pushing the tiny Asian girl away from him and zipping up his pants. "What the fuck, man?"

Connor was a skinny white boy who seemed to think he was black. He didn't look like much, but he had the rep of a Juan Seritaz without the fame, and he had a thing for underage Asian girls _and_ boys.

"I think I should be asking what the fuck is this?" Vic asked, motioning towards the girl, cowering in the corner, her long, silky black hair falling over her terrified face. "Looks a little young."

"What do you want, Mackey?" Connor spat, brushing his shaggy hair from his face.

"I know a guy named Holland Wagenbach," Vic said. "He goes by the name of Dutch. He's a detective at my precinct, and I do believe he threatened me today."

"So? Why should I give a shit?"

"Because if he takes me down, he takes you down," Vic replied smoothly, with a smirk. "I don't him dead, I just want him to get and understand the message, OK?'

"Fine," Connor growled. "I'll get it done tonight."

"If he doesn't show up with bruises on his face tomorrow," Vic said a warningly friendly tone, "I know where to find you."


	10. Love was such an easy game to play

Chapter 10

Chris slipped her headphones on over her ears as she entered the park, one of the only peaceful places left in this area. Everywhere else was crawling with gang bangers and pimps.

Pressing play on the CD player - which she had borrowed from Dutch - she began to run down the path through the park. The sounds of The Beatles played - a CD which was also borrowed from Dutch - and she sang happily along with he lyrics which carried her half way through the park, until she got to _Help_.

_Help me if you can/I'm feeling down/And I do appreciate you being' round/Help me get my feet back on the ground/Won't you please, please help me_...

The words slipped from her lips almost automatically, but her mind and body were so consumed with them that she unintentionally veered off the path without even noticed. Tears suddenly burst into her eyes and she stumbled.

As she fell down into the brush lining the path, tears streaking down her face, the CD skipped a few times, making a whirring noise between sound bites. After a moment or two it stopped, and the song continued nicely.

Chris wiped at the tears on her cheeks as she choked down her sobs and looked down at the inside of her leg. The shorts that she had pulled on were short enough to reveal the "D" of Dutch's name on her leg.

She touched the cut, still too fresh for a scab to have formed. It was sore, throbbing gently as she ran her fingers over it. Flashes of the night before, of Dutch's face of and of his voice entered her mind. He made her happy, so happy, but he also awoke something in her, something that she thought had died long ago.

Pulling the headphones from over her ears as the tears subsided, Chris wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair. Maybe she would just skip over that song, the song that seemed to remind her of the thing that now lurked restlessly within her-

"Excuse me, ma'am."

Her head snapped up and her eyes locked on a middle-aged man who looked down at her, concerned.

"Are you OK?"

"Oh," she said, her voice hoarse as she wiped leaves from her shirt. "Yeah, I think I am."

"What is that?" He motioned to the swollen red latter on her leg.

Moving to pull the shorts over the cuts she found them _too_ short to cover it. "N-nothing," she stammered.

"Are you sure?" He persisted. "I'm a doctor, I can help you."

Her hand went up to the bruise on her jaw. What must he be thinking? Probably domestic abuse, the beginning of a name or a word carved in her leg, a dark bruise on her jaw, a fading one on her wrist. "I'm fine, really," she said. "It's nothing."

He looked at her uneasily, seeming to just not accept that answer. "I would like to take you to the hospital for an examination. I saw your crash from down the path, it looked pretty rough."

Her eyes wandered down and sure enough she saw bleeding scraped on her knees. "But I'm fine," she insisted, looking up at him. He looked genuinely worried, and she felt bad for putting him off like that. A moment passed and she rolled her eyes slightly. "Fine," she said. "Take me to the hospital."

He held out his hand and helped her to her feet, leading her down the path in the direction she had come from.

* * *

When they reached the hospital, she was still humming _Help_ and every now and then _Yesterday_ would sneak its way into her mind.

_Damn Beatles,_ she thought. _They just wont leave me alone!_

Dr. Nick Coffman was shinning a small light into her eyes, then taking her pulse, examining the bruise on her jaw, asking questions.

"How'd you get these bruises?"

"A man broke into my house and attacked me."

"Did you report it to the police?"

"They were trailing him at the time and caught him in the act."

"Oh. That's good. Did you get those cuts at the same time as the bruises?"

"No."

"When did you get them?"

"Will you be able tot ell if I lie?"

"Yes."

"Last night."

"How?"

"What if I don't want to tell you?"

Nick pulled back and sat down in his chair across from her. "You're by no means obligated to tell me anything," he said. "But I noticed that the cuts I can see look fairly clean. I also notice-" He motioned to the scars on her arms. "-That you seem to have a history of self-destruction."

Touching her arms and feeling the scars, some of them still rough due to their freshness. "These were a while ago."

"Not all of them."

"Fuck." She held her hands out helplessly. "Is it really that easy to tell new scars from old? Goddamn it, I went through a rough time recently and it was a habit I developed as a child! I guess when my brother became the main focus of a murder - a hate crime, nonetheless - I felt helpless and it dug up old memories. OK? But that was a month ago now."

"Are you going through a hard time now?" Nick prodded.

"No!" Chris snapped. "I'm fucking happier than I've been in a long time!"

"Then what are those?" Nick asked, motioning to the "D" carved in her thigh.

Chris moved her hand down, shielding the cuts, a vicious snarl touching her lips. "Why do you keep looking?"

"They're hard to miss," Nick said, his voice sounding apologetic. "They look like they might be infected."

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Chris took a moment to think over what he had said previously. Asking about the bruises and the cuts. "Is there something that you're trying to imply?" She asked quietly, in a harsh tone.

"Well," Nick said, leaning forward seriously. "I am curios as to whether you are in an abusive relationship."

Chris's jaw dropped, even though it wasn't that far-fetched. She had cuts on the inside of her leg - a brand, even - bruises on her face and wrist. She completely understood how this doctor would have come to that conclusion. But she was in a relationship with _Dutch_. He wasn't an abuser. He didn't want to carve his name into her leg even though she asked him to, and he wasn't going to do it unless she carved her name into his back. If anything, she was the abuser!

"No!" She finally snapped. 'I am not in an abusive relationship!"

"Are you in a relationship?"

"Yes, but-"

"Did your partner hurt you?"

She stubbornly shook her head. "No," she said.

His eyes stayed quietly locked on her, disbelieving. He knew she was lying through her teeth. What he didn't know was that her lie was a half-lie. Dutch had hurt her, after she had asked him repeatedly. After she had convinced him to.

"I don't believe you," Nick said after a lengthy pause.

"I don't care if you believe me," Chris replied smoothly, having regained some of her composure. "You can check the police records. They have the record of the man breaking into my house. There was a paramedic there who checked me out. He was from this hospital. Check out those records, they'll show you."

"Will they prove to me that your partner didn't cut that 'D' into your thigh?"

Chris's eyes narrowed on him. She didn't have anything else to say about this. So, refusing to dignify his question with an answer, she held out her hand. "Let me use your cell phone."

"All right," Nick said, standing up and handing her his Nokia. "Would you like some privacy?"

"Yes," she said, taking the phone.

As soon as he was out of the room and the door was shut behind him, she quickly dialed in Dutch's number at work. She would just go into the phone's call records and delete this number. It was really quite easy. The only thing that complicated her communication with Dutch was that he wasn't there.

"This is Holland Wagenbach," Dutch's machine chimed. "Leave a message after the tone and I'll get back to you." _Beep_.

"Dutch," Chris whispered, afraid of being overheard. "This is Chris. Listen, I'm at the hospital. I was jogging in the park and I took a fall. There was a doctor right down the path and he had me come to the hospital with him to make sure that I was OK and he saw some of the cuts on my leg. Now he won't stop asking me about them." She paused, trying to think. Was there anything else she needed to tell him? "I'm going to go to your house after I get done here. I love you."

Just then Nick knocked lightly on the door. "Are you done?"

"Just a second." She found the menu on the phone and found the call records. _Calls dialed_. The first number was Dutch's. She selected it and found "delete" on the options, and selected that.

A little message popped up on the small, square screen. "Enter password."

"Password?" She hissed at the phone. "Whop puts a fucking lock on their calls dialed?" She wanted to yell at the phone, throw it down and stomp on it.

This doctor was persistent. He wasn't going to let this go. He was going to look and see whom she called. He would probably call up Dutch and ask him himself.

"Shit!"

"Everything OK in there?"

"Yeah..." Chris said, going back to main screen. "Just a sec." She started tapping in random numbers and calling them. Maybe if Dutch's number got bumped down to the bottom Nick wouldn't see it. She just let each number ring once before hanging up and dialing another number, all the while praying that Nick wouldn't get the number.

The door opened and Nick came in. "You sure are taking a long time."

She hung up on the last number and reluctantly held out the phone. "Sorry," she said quietly. "May I go now?"

* * *

Dutch was out at a crime scene with Claudette. No one would care if Vic just sat down at Dutch's desk for a second and listened to see who these two messages were from. In fact, it was likely that no one would even notice.

But just to make sure, Vic glanced around to see who was in the area. No one that cared. That was good.

He picked up the phone and pressed play so that he could listen to the messages without anyone else hearing. The first message was intriguing:

"Dutch, this is Chris. Listen, I'm at the hospital. I was jogging in the park and I took a fall. There was a doctor right down the path and he had me come to the hospital with him to make sure that I was OK and he saw some of the cuts on my leg. Now he won't stop asking me about them... I'm going to go to your house after I get done here. I love you."

_Cuts? I wonder what cuts those are,_ Vic mused as he casually erased the message. And went on to the second one. Let Dutch Boy find out the hard way that a doctor was sticking his nose up Chris's skirt trying to find out if she had been abused. But the second message, from only a few minutes before, was even better:

"Hello, Mr. Wagenbach. My name is Nick Coffman. I examined a girl I believe you know named Crystal Martinez. I would greatly appreciate it if you would call me. I have some questions. Thanks."

_Oh, the doctor is on his trail,_ Vic thought with a malicious grin. _Well then, let's just leave that one there and see what happens when he calls the good doc back_. For a brief moment Vic considered letting this go on as a way of revenge against Dutch, but decided against it. _I'll let Connor kick some sense into him_. _That way, he really gets the message_.


	11. Smile while you Kill

Chapter 11

All day Dutch had been out with Claudette trying to track down a guy involved in a drive by shooting. Five witnesses had identified the man, a white guy who was on parole. He'd spent ten years in jail for previous involvement in drive bys, and had only gotten out a week ago for good behavior. That was why he was on the top of the list. And sure enough, when shown some photos, all eyewitnesses had picked out the same guy.

Wow, this case had turned out to be easy.

Unfortunately, tracking down the guy wasn't as easy as identifying him.

Claudette had informed his parole officer of his violation of parole, while Dutch had made contact with local new stations and gave them a description and faxed them his picture. This had been broadcasted half an hour ago, and several calls had come in.

Dutch and Claudette had split up to deal with the calls, and Dutch was on the latest one, making his way to a shabby old bar in a ghetto-like area several miles from The Barn. A call had come in from a bartender saying that the guy was in the bar, and he would do his best to keep him there.

So when Dutch pulled up in front of the old, broken down place and got out of the car, he was expecting to find the guy inside. He was expecting to make an easy arrest. That was why he walked in so boldly, looking for his suspect.

But, quite to his dismay, he found the bar emptied.

The door was slammed shut behind him, and he stiffened, looking at the five men that stood before him. "Hey," he said, glancing over his shoulder to see a sixth locking the door. "Whatever you guys are doing, just think about it, OK? I'm a detective."

"Yeah," a young white boy with shaggy brown hair said as he stepped forward. "We know who you are. Holland WagenBach, right?" The boy's cronies sniggered at Dutch's name. "But you go by Dutch, yes?"

Taking a step back, thinking that if he could just get tot he door he would be able to unlock it and run, Dutch was pushed by the sixth man, who lingered by the door. He shoved him forward and kicked out at the back of his knees, knocking him down on all fours.

"Now bark like a dog," the apparent leader said, walking towards him with a beer bottle in his hand.

Looking up at him, Dutch gnawed the inside of his lips, trying to figure out what to do. He still had his gun. Maybe in just a few minutes he could draw it and shoot... But for now he needed to keep them preoccupied somehow.

"Who are you?" He asked.

"You can call me Connor," the boy said, slapping the full bottle against his open hand.

"So you got in here and chased everyone out?" Dutch said. "Just to call me and get me here alone?" He pretended to muse over this for a moment. "Pretty damn impressive. I mean, the chasing all the bikers out part. The part about you needed five back ups to take one guy, that's pretty pathetic."

Connor threw his head back and laughed maniacally. "Don't bother with that psychobabble shit. I'm not really very concerned about my image here."

At this instant, while the boy was looking at the sixth man behind Dutch, he went for his gun. He had it in his hand, he had it pointed at the boy called Connor, his finger was on the trigger-

The sixth man's hands were on Dutch's wrists, and they jerked him to the side as the trigger was pulled. A bullet slammed from the muzzle of the gun and struck a boy behind Connor. He jerked to the side as a burst of blood sprayed from his chest; all the tiny spatters of red looking almost like shattered glass as they glittered through the air.

The boy's body hit the ground with a thud, and Connor moved quickly, bringing his foot up into Dutch's chest.

An unbelievably painful cough caught in Dutch's throat, and his eyes budged as his gun fell from his hand. He fell flat against the floor, clutching at his throat, feeling as though he couldn't breath.

"What the fuck, man?" Connor hissed, kicking Dutch's gun away from him. "I thought we could do this the easy way! Shit!" He looked back at his boy, the body going through it's least pangs of life as the muscles convulsed before death brought down his final strike. Then the boy lay still. "Shit. Now I may have to kill you."

After a few moments, Dutch was sucking in ragged breaths, his eyes watering badly as he pushed himself up onto all fours again. But he really didn't get very far. As soon as he started sitting up on his knees, Connor lifted the beer bottle and brought it crashing down on the back of Dutch's skull.

With a silent cry of pain, Dutch fell back to the floor as the glass shattered down around him and beer spilled over his shoulders. He hit the floor hard, and felt his cheek split on the dirty wooden floor.

Pulling back a little to gain as much force as he could, Connor delivered a crushing kick to Dutch's ribs, turning hi over on his back, making him cringe. He seemed confused as to where to grasp - his head, his bruised neck, his side, or his bleeding cheek.

Bending down and putting a gagged edge of the broken bottle against Dutch's neck, just above the jugular, Connor snarled in his face. "Do you know what this is about?"

Dutch wanted to speak, wanted to say "No" but he was scared that if he moved even in the slightest the sharp glass would go through the fragile skin at the jugular and his blood would spill out. "No," he whispered, moving as little as possible.

"Let's just say," Connor said, putting some pressure on the bottle at Dutch's throat, "that we have a friend in high places who you managed to piss off. If he goes down, so do I. And I'll take you down before I let myself go down. Got it?"

Suppressing the urge to nod vigorously, Dutch hissed, "Yes."

"Good," Connor said, spitting in his face.

As the disgusting wad of saliva hit his face, Dutch jerked unconsciously to the side, and felt a small pang of hurt at his neck. His hand went quickly to it, and felt that the glass had grazed his skin, but done no serious damage. It was barely even bleeding.

Slowly, Dutch sat up, already become stiff from his injuries. He wiped the saliva from his face, glaring up at Connor as the boys all laughed at him.

"You're pathetic," Connor said, taking the bottle firmly in his hand. "How do you feel about pain?"  
Before Dutch had time to respond, he felt hand grabbing him from behind, and Connor reached forward with the bottle, slashing across Dutch's clothes. Connor took hold of the torn fabric and tore it away, taking the bottle over his head and taking it down in a harsh slash across Dutch's chest.

Letting out a cry of pain, Dutch tried to wrestle his hands free to defend himself, but Connor raised his boot quickly and slammed it into Dutch's stomach.

Doubling over, Dutch coughed and groaned, hardly able to believe what was going on. _Vic did this to me_, he thought, _all because of what I said to him before?_

"Get him on his feet," Connor said.

Feeling himself being dragged to his feet, Dutch made to lift his eyes, but almost instantly Connor's hard knuckles cracked against Dutch's jaw and snapped his head to the side. Connor thrust another punch into Dutch's stomach, then yet another into the other side of how face, whipping his head around the other way.

"How do you feel now, copper?" Connor hissed as he stepped forward and took hold of Dutch's shoulders. "How do you fucking feel now?" With as much force as he could muster, he brought his knee up into Dutch's groin, not once, not twice, but three times.

The man holding Dutch on his feet let him fall to his knees. Dutch didn't know how many times he had tried out in pain, or if he had at all. All he knew was that he was suddenly falling down, curled up on the ground, holding his damaged crotch.

Connor was laughing hysterically. "Let's see yuh try and fuck now, pig!" Connor shouted. "I am having too much fun. Thanks for the sport."

Turning away from Dutch's pathetically crumpled form; Connor bent over and picked up the gun that had been taken from him earlier. He held it up and admired it. "Nice piece yuh have here," Connor murmured as he walked back over to Dutch. "How much does one of these things cost?" He looked down at Dutch, who had neglected to answer due to his injuries. Connor nodded to one of the men, and he bent down, bringing Dutch back up to his knees.

Lifting his eyes, seeing blurry because of the tears gathered in them, Dutch cursed himself for having been taken so easily. _What is wrong with me?_ He wondered as Connor approached him.

"Open your mouth," Connor said, holding the gun out.

"No," Dutch hissed.

"Open your fucking mouth," Connor said, tilting the gun a little and pressing it against Dutch's lips. "Come on... Eat it, copper."

"Don't do this," Dutch said, turning his face away from the gun, trying to reach up to knock the gun away and finding that his hands were being held behind him.

"Why not?" Connor said with a smile.

"I have a wife," Dutch said, turning his head further away from the gun.

Connor just laughed. "She must be pretty ashamed to let you inside her."

"They won't even try to cut you a deal when you're caught," Dutch said.

"What makes you think that we'll be caught?" Connor asked.

Dutch closed his eyes as Connor pressed the gun closer to Dutch's lips. "Are you kidding me? They're not going to let a cop killer escape."

"You know, I wasn't going to kill you," Connor said, reaching forward and taking hold of Dutch's chin, his long fingernails digging into his skin as he pulled Dutch's head back, forcing Dutch to face him. "Then you killed one of my boys."

"That wasn't my fault," Dutch said.

"Really?" Conner against pushed the muzzle of the gun against Dutch's lips. "You pulled this gun, didn't you?"

Dutch glared up at Connor, feeling so full of hatred...what was he supposed to do with all this hatred?

"Eat it," Connor said, pressed the gun harder against Dutch's lips.

Taking a deep breath, Dutch opened his mouth and felt the cool metal slide over his tongue.

"Good boy," Connor whispered, grinning wryly. He tilted his head, looking at Dutch with the gun in his mouth. He laughed a little. "Too bad you're not my type," he mused. "This makes me really wanna fuck something." He pushed the gun hard into Dutch's mouth, jerking his back and backing him gag a little.

The boys laughed as Dutch continued to gag on the gun. Connor just held it in place for a few minutes then pushed it further, forcing Dutch to bend his head back more. He tried to cough, tried to breathe freely, but was unable to with the gun shoved into his throat.

"Troy," Connor said, motioning to one of the boys behind him. "Come hold this for me."

A short boy with red hair and freckles - he couldn't have been older than fifteen - took the gun and held it steadily in place as Connor got down on his knees in front of Dutch.

Connor leaned forward and ran a hand up Dutch's chest and over his shoulder. The kids hand was like ice, and Dutch wanted to jerk away, but the guy behind him held him so tight he couldn't move.

His hand continued over Dutch's shoulder, under his shirt and over his shoulder blade. "Oh," Connor said, lifting his eyebrows and grinning, hissing into Dutch's ear. "What's this?"

The man behind Dutch moved a little to side, holding each of his hand individually as Connor pulled Dutch's jacket and shirt down from his shoulder, looking at the cuts on his back. "Crystal..." Connor said quietly. "That your wife? Pretty name." He was quiet for a moment, tracing the cuts with his finger. "Maybe I'll pay her a visit next. Show her what a real man is."

Dutch jerked his head to the side, finding that he had more freedom of movement with the jackass holding his arms separately. He kicked out, his foot striking the redhead in the knee. As he fell down his finger tightened in pain over the trigger, shooting up at the roof.

Connor had his hands around Dutch's head, threatening to break his neck, but Dutch had just wrestled one arm free, and he reached up, clawing at Connor's face.

It seemed now like a thousand men were on him all at once. Somehow he had managed to wrestle his other arm free, and he was striking out with fists, elbows, feet, and knees. He caught somebody on the jaw, and sent somebody onto the floor curled up holding his crotch.

Spinning over onto his stomach, Dutch fumbled for the gun and finally found it, turning over to find a man directly on top of him. A hand seized his throat and began to crush his windpipe. But he lifted his gun, pressed it against the man's head, and pulled the trigger.

_Bang_.

The man's head jerked back and Dutch kicked the man's body from him, jumping to his feet. He stepped back several paces, holding his gun out. Those weren't injured badly stood before him. This included everybody but the boy with the shattered knee, the dead man, and the guy still cradling his wounded crotch.

He pointed the gun threatening at them all, a manic laugh rising in his throat. "Who should go first?" He sneered; unable to recognize his own voice as it spilled from his mouth, tasting disgustingly metallic.

Connor laughed at him. "You won't do it."

Dutch pointed his gun directly at the throat of the center man and pulled the trigger. An explosion of blood spattered the guys standing beside him as the body fell backward. As Dutch watched the unbelievable beautiful scene, the bloody mist still in the air like a kaleidoscope of red, he never lost his smile.

The boy standing to the right of Connor turned and ran at the door, finding it locked. He fumbled with it, crying. Dutch pointed his gun, pulled the trigger. The boy's body hit the door as the bullet struck his between the shoulder blades, and his body fell to the floor in convulsions.

Connor looked down at the two bodies, his jaw slack in disbelief. "Oh, well," said Dutch, that crazy grin still on his face, his voice still sounding so unfamiliar. "Look at that. I've learned to smile while I kill."

His gun now aimed at Connor, who was practically shaking where he stood, his eyes fixated on the muzzle of the gun, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"And it's so much better than killing a fucking cat," Dutch snarled, stepping stiffly forward. "Get on your knees." By the time Dutch stood inches away from Connor, the boy was on his knees, looking up, terrified, at the man he had just beaten. "Open your moth mother fucker."

Connor opened his mouth obediently.

Dutch pushed the gun inside of Connor's mouth, knowing how the boy felt, and yet feeling absolutely no sympathy himself.

"You really pissed me off, you little shit," Dutch snarled. "I almost feel like showing you what a real man is." Dutch's smiled twisted a little, making him look all the more crazy. "Sadly, I think you hurt me a little too bad for that." He pressed the gun further into Connor's mouth, so far into his mouth that he gagged. Dutch jerked it forward, pressing harder until Connor lurched, and jerked to the side, throwing up all over the floor.

While Connor was bent over, Dutch lifted the butt of his gun and brought it down on the back of Connor's head. Blood soaked his hair as he fell forward onto the ground, unconscious.

Dutch dropped his gun, lifting his hand to the back of his own head, feeling blood in his hair.

The insane fire that had been growing wild inside him seemed to die down, exhausted, as Dutch let his hand fall to his side.

He looked around, at the boy shrieking and holding his shattered knee, so wrapped up in his pain he was oblivious to what had just happened. The man who had been clutching his groin managed somehow to have snuck out through the back door.

Connor lay at his feet, bleeding profusely, and four young men lay dead.

_Holy shit, _Dutch thought, feeling the bile rise in his throat. He rushed towards the door, fumbling with the lock and throwing the door open, falling down on the hot dirt in front of the bar and vomiting.

_What have I done?_


	12. Good Doctor

Chapter 12

An ambulance arrived on the scene along with a few police cars not long after Dutch radioed in. Two more ambulances were called out soon after the first arrived.

Connor and the boy with the shattered knee were loaded into separate ambulances, and on the way to the hospital cops road with them, questioning them the whole way. The kid would get off because he wasn't legally and adult yet, but Connor would be in jail within the next two months.

Dutch sat in the third ambulance, holding a pack of ice to the back of his head. The cops who had arrived questioned him thoroughly, asking about every detail of what had happened. And Dutch told the truth, up until the point when he killed unarmed men.

A stray shot got one, and one had been coming at him when he was taken down. But Dutch had managed to simply knock Connor unconscious, rather than killing him.

Claudette arrived on the scene as the third ambulance was preparing to take him to the hospital to treat his head injury. She jumped inside the ambulance and held out a piece of paper to him.

"How are you doing?" She asked as he took the paper.

"Fine, I think," Dutch said, opening the paper while continuing to hold the ice pack to his head. "What's this?"

"A message was left on your machine. A Dr. Coffman called about Crystal."

"Crystal?" Dutch asked, looking up at Claudette. "Is she OK? What happened?"

"I don't know," Claudette said. "He just said he needed to ask you some questions. But relax, I'm sure everything is fine. And you don't need to be getting all worked up."

He removed the ice pack and looked down at the towel wrapped around it. The wound was still bleeding just a little. The towel was spotted with red, but most of the bleeding had stopped, so he wasn't too worried.

"What happened?" Claudette asked.

"Look at the report," Dutch said. "Sorry, but I'm just getting sick of talking about it."

Sighing and nodding, Claudette leaned back. She opened her mouth to speak, but the paramedic interrupted her.

"We're going now," he said. "Were you planning on riding with us?"

"Oh, no," Claudette said, standing. ""I'll drive myself." She looked back to Dutch. "Try to relax, OK? I'll see you there."

"OK," Dutch said, leaning against the side of the ambulance, holding the ice back to his head as he took out his phone. He dialed the number that Claudette had given him with his thumb as the paramedic jumped in and closed the door. Dutch saw that the paramedic was about to ask him to turn the phone off, so he said quickly, "I'll only be a minute."

_Ring, ring_.

"Hello, this is Nick Coffman."

"Hi, this Holland Wagenbach," Dutch said, crumbling the paper and shoving it in his pocket. "You called me about Crystal Martinez. Is she OK?"

"I'm not sure," Dr. Coffman said. "I wanted to ask you about that."

"What?" That was a little...weird. "Why? What do you mean?"

"Are you her boyfriend?"

"Yeah." He could see that the good doctor was going to start asking him a long line of questions, but he was going to be at the hospital anyway, and would much prefer to see this man face-to-face. "I'm coming to the ambulance right now. We can talk there," Dutch said.

"OK."

"I'll be checked in as a patient, so just come see me during the examination."

"Sure," Dr. Coffman said. "I'll see you then."

"All right," Dutch said, sighing and hanging up the phone. He would call Crystal when they got to the hospital and tell her what had happened, but until then he was going to let the paramedic take care of him.

* * *

A nurse called Lynette was shinning a light in Dutch's eyes when Coffman came in. "It looks like you don't have a concussion," she said. "How's your chest doing?"

"Fine," Dutch said. He had gotten stitches in the long, and pretty deep gash across his chest. On hundred and ninety six stitches, to be exact. He hadn't let them see the cuts on his back, just his chest, so no one knew about the cuts between his shoulder blades.

Lynette looked up at Coffman with a smile. "Yeah?"

"I actually need to speak with your patient," Coffman said, motioning to Dutch. "Can we have a few moments alone?"

"Yes, of course," Lynette said, stepping out of the room.

Coffman pulled up a chair while Dutch leaned back against the wall. "Have you spoken with Crystal today?"

"No," Dutch said. "What happened?"

"I saw her take a fall in the park," Coffman said. "I insisted on bringing her here to check her out after I saw the bruise on her jaw and on her wrist."

"Thos are old," Dutch said. "A man broke into her house-"

"That's what she told me," Coffman said, cutting him off. "But I also saw some cuts on the inside of her thigh."

Dutch's heart seemed to skip a beat, turning to ice.

"There was 'D' carved into her skin, and it looked like it might be infected, but she wouldn't let me look at it." The doctor eyed Dutch for a minute, watching him as he bowed his head, frowning and gnawing his lip. "Do you know anything about that?"

Several minutes passed of complete silence, then Dutch slowly nodded his head. "I did it," he said.

"Have you abused her?" He asked bluntly.

Dutch lifted his eyes, his lips parting in shock of the blatant nature of the question.

"Those cuts looked pretty bad," the doctor said. "She was trying to protect you. That's not unnatural in an abusive relationship."

Feeling his stomach heave, Dutch leaned forward a little, grasping the edge of his chair tighter. _My God_, he thought, closing his eyes for a moment. He remembered the night before, cutting his name into her thigh, the way the cuts bled.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice choked. "I never wanted to hurt her."

"Most don't," the doctor said.

"I did it," Dutch repeated. "I hurt her."

The doctor rose, straightening his medical coat and looking down at Dutch. "I want to let you know that I'm going to call the police."

Dutch just nodded. "Good," he said. "Do it. I deserve it."

As the doctor left the room, images flashed through his mind: the blood running down Chris's leg. The bullets striking those men back at the bar and striking them dead.

_I deserve it_, he repeated to himself_. I deserve worse_.


	13. Cuts

Chapter 13

When Claudette arrived, Chris was getting out of cab in front of the hospital.

"Crystal," Claudette called to her.

Chris spun on her heels and looked at Claudette, trying to place her face. then a grin touched her lips and she walked forward to meet Claudette. 'Hey," she said. "You're Dutch's partner. I'm sorry, I can't think of your name."

"Claudette," she said, returning the girl's grin. "Dutch got a call earlier, from a doctor. It was about you."

The smile fell abruptly from Chris's face. "Shit," she said, her eyes moving over Claudette's shoulder. A black and white was pulling up by the curb, the lights flashing, but no siren screaming. "Oh my God." She turned around and looked at the hospital doors. "Oh my God."

"What?" Claudette asked, beginning to get worry at the panic setting over this girl. "Crystal, what is it?"

"They're going to arrest him," she said before breaking into an all out run towards the hospital doors.

"What?" Claudette asked again, before following her through the door. But she had lost her. Chris was gone, already half way to Dutch.

She found him waiting in an examination room staring at the tiled floor. "Dutch!" She ran in, slamming the door behind her and locking it.

"Chris," Dutch said, sounding exhausted as he watched her lock the door. "Don't."

"Dutch, what are you doing?" She ran to him, grabbed his shoulders. "What are you doing? You didn't do anything to me!"

"But, I did," Dutch said, his hands resting around her waist. "And I killed four men today. One was only fifteen."

"Dutch, that has nothing to do with this," Chris said, tears gathering in her eyes, her voice straining as her hands moved to his neck, her fingers shaking violently. "Don't do this, please."

"I hurt you," Dutch whispered, looking directly into her eyes, his voice barely even a whisper. "I hurt you after I promised to never hurt you."

"But I asked you to!" Chris puttered. "And then I did it to you, too! _I asked you to!_"

"I shouldn't have done it," Dutch said, reaching up with one hand and wiping away a single tear trailing down her cheek.

"Dutch..."

He pulled her to him, and she collapsed into his lap, burying her face against his neck as sobs brok through her throat and tears soaked her cheeks. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, kissing her neck.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Chris hugged his tightly, her fingers grabbing fists of his shirt. "Don't do this," she said over and over. "Please don't."

The doorknob jiggled, and someone knocked on the door. "Holland Wagenbach? Are you in there?"

Chris lifted her eyes, her vision blurred by tears. "No," she whispered, looking back to Dutch. "But you didn't do anything. I'm just not going to press charges-"

"Chris," Dutch said calmly, his hands pushing against her waist. "Please."

Numbly, Chris got to her feet and looked at him in awe as he went to the door and unlocked it, pulling it open. He looked at the cops, people he knew, and turned around, offering his wrists to them.

"No!" Chris screamed. "He didn't do anything!"

"Chris," Dutch said again, as if he were trying to talk sense into her. "Just let this happen, OK?"

"Come on," the cop who cuffed him said, pulling on his wrists. "Let's go."

Dutch turned and let them push him along down the hall toward the door.

Standing numbly in the examination room, Chris stared at the empty door way. What was happening? How was this possible? They couldn't do anything if she didn't press charges, could they? Or what if she proved that he didn't abuse her?

_The cuts on his back_.

She darted out the door and down the hall until she caught sight of them. "Look at his back!" She screamed, as she caught up with them. "Look at his back! I did the same thing to him!"

Dutch turned around, looking at her sternly. "Chris," he said, his voice sounding angered now. "Let it go. Let it happen."

The cops pushed him on towards the door, and he went willingly towards their car.

But Chris followed, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. "Dutch," she said, only loud enough for him to hear her. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes," Dutch said as they reached the car. "I do." He turned and looked at her steadily as the door was open for him. "Don't worry." He stepped in the car, and the door was shut behind him.

"NO!" Chris screamed, starting to move towards the vehicle. But a strong pair of hands grasped her arms pulling her back. "Let me go!" She cried as the cops got in the car and started it up. Her knees grew weak beneath her, and she fell down on the cement, still struggling against the hands that held her. "Let me go! _Let him go!_"

"Hush," said a soothing voice as she was pulling into a comforting hug.

Chris fell into Claudette's hug, sobbing pitifully, not knowing what else to do.

Claudette stroked the poor girl's hair, holding her in the hug. She'd gotten the whole story from Dr. Coffman only moments before. This whole thing was unbelievable... What had happened?

"It's OK," Claudette said softly. "Everything is going to be OK."


End file.
